“I see. Well, I’d like to help you but I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do.”
“There is.”
“What?”
“Find her.”
He turned, frowning. “Why?”
“I want to — I must see her, talk to her. I must rid myself of this — uncertainty.”
“Perhaps the uncertainty is in yourself, Helen. Finding a stranger may not help you.”
She raised her hand in an autocratic little gesture as if she meant to silence him. But almost immediately her hand dropped to her side again and she said, “Perhaps not. But you could try.”
“All I have to go on is a name.”
“No. There’s more than that. Remember what she said, that one of these days she’d be famous, her — her body would be in every art museum in the country. That must mean that she poses for artists, she’s a model.”
“Models are a dime a dozen in this town.”
“But it at least gives you a place to start. Aren’t there such things as model booking agencies?”
“Yes.”
“You could try there. I’ll pay you, of course. I’ll pay...”
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“I’m not for hire.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Have I offended you by mentioning money? I’m sorry. When I offer to pay people, I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s simply all I have to offer.”
“You have a low opinion of yourself, Helen.”
“I wasn’t born with it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The story,” she said, “is too long to tell, and too dull to listen to.”
“I see.” But he didn’t see. He remembered Clarvoe as a tall, thin, quiet-mannered man, obviously fond of and amused by his frilly little wife, Verna. What errant chromosomes or domestic dissensions had produced two such incongruous children as Helen and Douglas, Blackshear could not even guess. He had never been intimate with the family although he’d known them all since Helen was in college and Douglas was attending a military prep school. Once in a while Blackshear was invited out to the house for dinner, and on these occasions the conversation was conducted by Verna Clarvoe, who would chatter endlessly on the I... me — my level. Neither of the children had much to say, or, if they had, they had been instructed not to say it. They were like model prisoners at the warden’s table, Douglas, fair-skinned and fragile for his age, and Helen, a caricature of her father, with her cropped black hair and bony arms and legs.
Shortly after Clarvoe’s death, Blackshear had been surprised to read in the society page of the morning paper that Douglas had married. He had been less surprised when a notice of annulment followed, on the legal page, a few weeks later.
“I know what you are thinking,” Miss Clarvoe said. “That I should hire an experienced investigator.”
Nothing had been further from his thoughts but he didn’t argue. “It seems like a good idea.”
“Do you know of anyone?”
“Not offhand. Look in the yellow pages.”
“I couldn’t trust a stranger. I don’t even tr—” Her mouth closed but her eyes finished the sentence: I don’t even trust you. Or mother, or Douglas. Or myself.
“Mr. Blackshear,” she said. “I...”
Suddenly, her whole body began to move, convulsively, like that of a woman in labor, and her face was tortured as if she already knew that the offspring she was going to bear would be deformed, a monster.
“Mr. Blackshear... I— Oh, God...”
And she turned and pressed her forehead against the wall and hid her face with her hands. Blackshear felt a great pity for her not because of her tears but because of all the struggle it had taken to produce them. The mountain labored and brought forth a mouse.
“There, there, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. Just take it easy.” He said all the things that he’d learned to say to his wife, Dorothy, whenever she cried, words which didn’t mean anything in themselves, but which fulfilled Dorothy’s need for attention and sympathy. Miss Clarvoe’s needs were deeper and more obscure. She was beyond the reach of words.
Blackshear lit another cigarette and turned to the window and pretended to be interested in the view, a darkening sky, a dribble of clouds. It might rain tonight — if it does, I won’t go to the office in the morning — maybe the doctor was right, I should retire altogether — but what will I do with the days and what will they do to me?
He was struck by the sudden realization that he was in his way as badly off as Miss Clarvoe. They had both reached a plateau of living, surrounded by mountains on the one side and deep gorges on the other. Blackshear had at one time scaled the mountains and explored the gorges, Miss Clarvoe had not done either; but here they were, on the same plateau.
“Helen...” He turned and saw that she had left the room.
When she returned a few minutes later, her face was washed and her hair combed.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Blackshear. I don’t often make a fool of myself in public.” She smiled wryly. “Not such a damned fool, anyway.”
“I’m sorry I upset you.”
“You didn’t. It was — the other things. I guess I’m an awful coward.”
“What are you afraid of, the thief or the woman?”
“I think they’re the same person.”
“Perhaps you’re interpreting your dream too literally.”
“No.” Unconsciously, she began to rub her forehead, and Blackshear noticed that it bore a slight scratch that was already healed over. “Do you believe that one person can influence another person to — to have an accident?”
“It’s possible, I suppose, if the suggestion is strong enough on the part of the first person, and if it coincides with a desire for self-punishment on the part of the second person.”
“There are some things you can’t explain by simple psychology.”
“I suppose there are.”
“Do you believe in extra-sensory perception?”
“No.”
“It exists, all the same.”
“Perhaps.”
“I feel... I feel very strongly — that this woman means to destroy me. I know it. If you like, call it intuition.”
“Call it fear,” Blackshear said.
She looked at him with a touch of sadness. “You’re like my father. Nothing exists for you unless you can touch or see or smell it. Father was tone-deaf; he never knew, in all his life, that there was such a thing as music. He always thought that when people listened to music they were pretending to hear something that wasn’t really there.”
“It’s not a very good analogy.”
“Better than you think, perhaps. Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Blackshear. I appreciate your taking time out to come and see me. I know how busy you are.”
“I’m not busy at all. In fact, I’ve practically retired.”
“Oh. I hadn’t heard. Well, I hope you enjoy your leisure.”
“I’ll try.” What will you do with the days, he asked himself. Collect stamps, grow roses, sit through double features, doze in the sun on the back porch, and when you get too lonely, go to the park and talk to old men on benches. “I’ve never had much leisure to enjoy. It will take practice.”
“Yes,” Miss Clarvoe said gently. “I’m afraid it will.”
She crossed the room and unlocked the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Blackshear followed her.
They shook hands again and Blackshear said, “You won’t forget to report the missing money to the police?”
“I won’t forget to do it, Mr. Blackshear. I will simply not do it.”
“But why?”
The money itself isn’t important. I sit here in my room and get richer without even raising my hand. Every time the clock ticks I’m richer. What does eight hundred dollars matter?”